Her Body, My Self

I am a heterosexual man who is so in touch with his feminine side that it has occasionally brought me up on harassment charges. Therefore, when Thing 1's bedtime reading selection for us was titled "The Care & Keeping of You: The Body Book for Girls," I was fully prepared to read and share my experiences on the perils of acne and unwanted and/or strategically placed body hair.

Then I opened to where the bookmarker had been placed.

In rather large san serif white-on-orange lettering, the chapter heading spelled out, "Period."

Oh.

"You sure you want this book tonight? What about that fairy book you got from the school media center?"

"No," Thing 1 insisted. "This is what Mom and I were reading the other night."

"Then let me get Mom."

"No. It's your turn to read to me tonight."

I scanned the page. It had a cartoon drawing of a young girl in a purplish T-shirt and green shorts. Her shorts seemed to have a piece of paper pinned across them.

With a diagram.

Labeled "vagina."

And "uterus."

Monty Hall, that looks like a sweet trip to beautiful "Blushing Dadland," but I think I'd rather have what's behind Curtain No. 2. Oh, a goat munching on an old shoe? Faaaaan-tastic.

I started listening closely to the sounds out in the hall. My Love was tucking Thing 2 in for the night. She has probably read him another book about flesh-eating dinosaurs or bugs that crawl into your crevices and leave their slimy eggs to fester and hatch. Lucky wench.

I cleared my throat. Oops, lost the page. Gotta find it again.

"Ready?"

"Yep."

"OK," I said, hearing doors opening and closing beyond the bedroom. "You read the first sentence, sweetie."

" 'Getting your period. There are probably no other words that will make you feel as exited …' "

"No, sweetie. The word is 'excited.'"

"'Excited, scarred …' "

"'Scared' not 'scarred.'"

"'Scared, or just plain confused.'"

Oh, frickin' tell me about, stupid authors! Who wrote this? I flipped back and scanned the preface page:

Why? Why do these people torment me so?

"Dad," Thing 1 said, "why are they calling it 'period.' I thought it was called 'puberty'?"

"All right. Those [footsteps] are … two [closer] ... well, different [doorknob turns] … things."

If ever My Love should have entered a room wearing a blue spandex outfit with a flowing red cape, this was it. I wonder which "special box" we hid that one in?

"MOOOM! Hey, we are sooooo glad you stopped by! Thing 1 here and I just started reading this very, um, detailed book you bought her. Maybe you can help us out with this question here …"

I bugged out, seeking comfort in the drunken, oversexed manliness of Tucker Max's "I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell."

About half an hour later, My Love and I had a strategy review meeting.

"Honey," I said, "you know I'm more than willing to tackle most cringe-inducing subjects with the kids but -- I'm sorry -- you were on the premises and I think you'll admit this is probably a topic  not within the grasp of [here's where I really sell it to the executive goddess within her] my particular skill set."

"I know!" she said. "I purposely stopped on that page the other day. I wanted to wait a while. Three days ago, we were reading a book about princesses and fairies. I didn't want to jump into periods right this minute. I meant to hide that book for a month or so."

"So ... how'd it go in there?" I said.

"OK. I gave her a demonstration about tampons …"

"Frick on a stick!"

"No, not on me! I just unwrapped one and showed her what it was."

A little later, after my heart returned to its normal rhythm, My Love mentioned that she had read that now that Thing 1 had started to, uh, sprout in certain body areas that it was likely that her first period could occur within the next year.

Why do I suddenly feel like a man on death row watching the lights flicker overhead?


Video: "Heterosexual Man," The Odds
If any of this made you feel uncomfortable, please go to Humor-Blogs.com and report me to the proper authorities.

Soccer Coach? But I Hardly Know Him!

Upon the birth of my first child, I knew two things were my destiny:

1. I would be one of those father's who threatened (and, when needed, performed) bodily harm upon any boy who broke his little girl's heart; and,


2. I would coach youth sports.

The first destiny is not yet fulfilled (but I'm watching you closely, curly haired, mouth-breather in the third row of homeroom). The second happened earlier this week when I became head wrangler of a herd of 7- and 8-year-old girl soccer players.

I originally volunteered to be an assistant. You know, the guy who always has a needle for the ball pump and a chemical ice bag for a bruised shin. When you need a supporting cast, I'm your Lou Grant, Rhoda Morgenstern and Phyllis Lindestrom -- all in one. But when you give me my own show … well, you tend to wish I had stayed in the newsroom with Murray and Ted.

But I got a frantic e-mail from the league saying they were desperately short of head coaches and would I, pretty please, do it. I hesitated for bit because I always envisioned coaching my children in a sport I actually know something about. Like baseball. Or beer pong.

Then I thought back to Thing 1's last coach. Her wisdom in the sport boiled down to screaming "kick it the other way" for 48 minutes every Saturday morning. The team scored two goals in eight games.

My mission accepted, I immersed myself in every book with variations of the words "youth, " "soccer" and "coaching" in the title providing those words were modified by either "idiot," "dummy" or "ignorant, stupid-ass Dad."

Then it was off to Modell's to indulge in plastic orange cones, a whiteboard with an soccer field diagram on it, and, every youth sport coaches' ace in the hole, pepper spray. Unfortunately, on that last one, I had to settle for a whistle.

I read. I watched video. I drew up a detailed game plan … just for my practices. In fact, I did more work on this than on the presentations I did at my old corporate job. But then, most of those executives only acted like elementary school girls. This time, I was going head to head with the real thing.

When my team showed for its first practice, I repeatedly called every player by the wrong name, even Thing 1 because I didn't want her to get special treatment. I had them play a series of goofy games that I was told would trick them into learning important skills like ball control, passing and showboating so your highlight would make ESPN that night.

They laughed. They giggled. They fell an awful lot, too.

At the end, we played a 5-on-5, free-for-all match that gave me the epiphany I needed. My overarching coaching goal for this season would be simple: Perfect a dance that would bring frequent, violent lightning storms every Saturday morning so our games would be canceled.

Then, we had our second practice. At this one, my assistant coach showed up. He came bearing sheaves of diagrams and definitions. My shortcomings were about to be exposed.

Actually, it was a good balance. He knew something about soccer other than the team with the most goals when the whistle blows wins. He knew technique. He knew skills. He was also willing to play bad cop to my Barney Fife.

"Hey, listen to Coach Uncool or else you're going be taking a lap around the field," he told one hyperactive player. He had missed it early when this same player told me I could easily remember her name because it rhymed with "wacky."

This was unprecedented. No one ever recognizes my authority. Not My Love, not the Things, not the dog. This called for a testing of boundaries.

At the end of practice, I called everyone in.

"Now Coach Joe here really knows his stuff. If he tells you something that is completely different than what I tell you, chances are that he is probably right and I'm wrong," I told my giggly gaggle of girls. "But, since I'm the head coach, you'll still need to do what I say. That's the law."

Tittles of laughter.

"He's right," said Coach Joe. "He's the head coach. You do as he says."

I don't know about you, kids, but I smell … ah, victory.

For more kicks and balls, go to Humor-Blogs.com, register and give me a smiley.

Never Too Thin ... or Too Into Male Gymnasts

Some people spread themselves out too thin. Me, I'm more of a lumpy gravy, chunky-style peanut-butter type.

That is why I have no posts for three days and today, I have posts on other two sites and one right here.

You might enjoy the insights on my relationship with My Love, her kin and nature in "Suburb Boy Gets Campy," which I wrote for my kindly patron and monthly drinking buddy, Meg at a FairfieldCountyChild.com -- the destination for parents in my 'hood with disposable income to spare and no shame to admit it.

Meg's in-laws, who include an NFL Hall of Famer, would probably enjoy my follow-up "Dear Brett Favre -- Week 2" over on DadCentric.com. Maybe not. He played for the Giants.

You don't have to like sports to like that last post. It's all about black magic and making pacts with Satan. The Devil, yeah, yeah -- snort!

I know my best friend, L.B. Stutter, will find it intriguing that I have now twice posted about football. She spent our mutual week at the beach house in August maligning the fact that I had no interest either in the Olympics or most other sports outside of baseball.

First, I watched part of the Olympics. I'll give you Michael Phelps and some of the track events. But I sat through 30 minutes of synchronized diving. Not synchronized swimming, mind you, but diving.

WTF?

Next, I watched a bit of the men's gymnastics -- the floor routines in specific. I'll confess that watching those guys sprint across the mat at breakneck speed then perform those potentially neck-breaking quadruple flips and whatnot was amazing and frightening all at once.

But what's with the little girlie flourishes?

You know, these muscled-out men have essentially defied gravity, broke a few laws of physics with these mid-air body contortions and shook the popcorn out of someone's bag in the cheap seats with an earthquake-inducing landing. Then, they finish by pointing their pinky toes out like they are testing the ocean's temperature and gazing longingly toward the heavens with arms spread in fainting protest like Scarlett O'Hara after Sherman: "No, no, I shan't go on like this! The Yankees! The Yankees have burned Daddy's cotton fields! And they've taken two of three from the Rays in a crucial pennant race!"

Oops. Strike three on me.

Singalong with Sarah Palin!

I think this could be my first No. 1 hit.

If I could sing. Or play an instrument. Or at least shoot and edit a video.

I'll leave that up to the professionals. Just send me the royalty checks.

Play this Everclear video (which is great on it own, BTW), but singalong with the new lyrics below:

Newest Bush Republican

Na-na na-na na-na na-na na-na na-na

You know I used to be a point guard
I got busy on the hard wood in my high school gym
Yeah I used to be the nice girl at the local beauty show
But now I know my right wing from my wrong

Yeah, yeah

I really used to be a newsgirl
I talked winning sled dogs in the big Iditarod
I even did the weather in a pinch
But now I am the Newest Bush Republican
Newest Bush Republican

Na-na na-na na-na na-na na-na na-na

I really used to be a mayor
I got lobbyists to con 'em into sending pork funds
I used to love to do the things I say I will not do
'Cause I've been vetted -- now I sing a new song

I really used to be the governor
Loved that crazy "Bridge to Nowhere" 'til McCain caught on
Yes, I was a pitbull in lipstick brown
But now I am the Newest Bush Republican
Newest Bush Republican
Newest Bush Republican
Newest Bush Republican
Newest Bush Republican

Na-na na-na na-na na-na na-na na-na

Where do all the reformers go
After elections go down?
I wonder where all the reformers go
'Cause when you need one, they are never around

I think they pander to the interest groups
Suck up to some white rich-ass Republican wives
They spout their values to low-class Republican children
Then live their big-ass Republican lies

Where do all the reformers go
After elections go down?
I wonder where all the reformers go
But now I am the Newest Bush Republican

Na-na na-na na-na na-na na-na na-na

* * *

My Love thinks Jon Stewart needs a nice goy like me on staff. How do you like your coffee, Mr. Stewart? Black? Sweeeeeeet?

But maybe Everclear has already written the perfect theme song for my girl Sarah.

C'mon, now -- do that stupid dance for me.

Not About Sarah Palin. Sorta.

While rest of the media -- professional, amateur and Fox News -- is buzzing about Sarah Palin today, I'm talking football over on DadCentric.com, so please go over there and read my post.

OK, even that post alludes to Sarah Palin. How could it not? They must love football in Alaska as much as they love moose, oil and unprotected teen sex. Hmmm, I bet they combine all four in one sitting up there. Alaska -- your 49th in the union but No. 1 in awesome perversness.

My Love has been obsessed with Palin being nominated as VP. Obsessed because I think she thinks she is just as qualified for the nomination, assuming My Love was a Republican and was backed by a vital special interest group, such as Wives of DUI Snowmobile Champions. Hey, My Love's dad was mayor of a small Midwestern town of less than 8,000. Executive knowledge through osmosis, baby. That's how George W. made it in, right?

Well, after watching Sarah Palin's speech last night, I must say I admire her fire, her spirit and her sarcastic wit (or that of her speechwriter). So much so that I dreamed about her last night. I'll save the details for my shrink; however, one thing stuck in my craw last night about this whole affair (no, she's not having an affair with me, let's stop the talk right here):

She isn't afraid to use her Down Syndrome baby like a prop.

Her daughter, the knocked up one, used the boy to hide her now apparent baby bump during Palin's introduction speech last week. Cindy McCain played down her heiress background and Rudy G.'s hard-assness by cuddling the kid during the former NYC mayor's speech. Someone woke the kid up on stage so Palin could be photographed with him after saying she'd be an advocate for special needs kids.

Sarah, darling, next time hire a sitter. No one will think less of you. You have my e-mail. Pay is negotiable.

Don't forget -- read my other post at DadCentric.com or at least go to Humor-Blogs.com and vote for me because I will never raise your taxes or impregnate your unwed daughter!

Remnants of Summer's Demise

I'm watching Summer '08 officially end as I type this. It's being sucked away, grain by grain, by the jumpsuits at my local car wash as they perform the season-ending de-beachification of the Manly Minivan of Uncoolness.

Before bringing the minivan in, I did my best to empty its contents -- the debris and spent remains of our two-week expedition to the Outer Banks of North Carolina.

Petrified French fries and whined-for, now-forgotten fast-food kiddie meal toys.

Broken CD cases and scratched DVDs.

Half-melted crayons and half-colored sheets of paper.

Chipped sea shells and several sunscreen-stained pairs of sunglasses.

Then I found some non-beach memorabilia.

A heart-shaped necklace Thing 1 left in a cup holder since late June, taken off because it didn't match the pink jeweled flowers in her newly pierced ears.

An orange parking pass from a minor league baseball game attended by me and my soon-to-be sno-cone engorged children in early August.

A wrinkled receipt from CVS detailing the cost to develop doubles of 216 photos we took during a tag-along on My Love's business trip in London. All the free reprints I had earned from this expired last week.

Stray golf balls from my weekend attempts to socialize with people other than those born in or after the year 2000.

Yesterday, the Things spent a glorious, sunny, 82-degree-with-low-humidity last day of freedom hunkered down in the basement watching Cartoon Network's "Pokemon" marathon. My Love scrambled to put down deposits on a beach house for next summer. I watered the greenery that is now brownery, and watched the first yellow leaves cascading down in my backyard.

Today, the Things are locked inside a school that may or may not be teaching them what they need to know for future success. My Love is back at her office, fighting the War of World Snack-Food Domination.

Me, I'm watching the suds come spraying down, wondering about autumn soccer schedules and dance classes. And I start to think that I didn't accomplish all I wanted to or should have this summer.

But I never do, and that's all right because that's what's summer's all about.